


Laundry Day

by okapi



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crack, John Watson Whump, Other, Purple Shirt of Sex, Sleeve job, Suit Porn, non-con elements, sentient clothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:20:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26587270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: When John decides to do Sherlock's laundry, Sherlock's laundry decides to do John.John/Sherlock's clothes. Crack. Suit porn in the most literal sense of the term. Non-con elements.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock's clothes/John Watson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 26
Collections: Season of Kink





	Laundry Day

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [Small Hobbit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit/pseuds/Small_Hobbit) for the beta/Britpick. For my Season of Kink bingo O-2 square 'held down.'

“Sherlock Holmes is such a child,” muttered John as he stood with his hands on his hips, surveying the mess that was the sitting room of 221b Baker Street. “Posh suit, worth more than my army pension, and he can’t be arsed to hang it up properly.” He picked up the grey suit jacket, trousers, and a plum-coloured dress shirt and draped them over his arm.

This last item was, in John’s opinion, the most attractive piece of Sherlock’s wardrobe, and to see it discarded so carelessly made John’s blood boil.

The black leather belt was still laced in the loopholes of the trousers. It jangled.

“And this,” continued John, warming to his theme. “God knows what kinds of stains are on this.” He grabbed a dark blue ball of silk from underneath Sherlock’s armchair. “And how did it get there?” He unfurled the dressing gown with a flick of the wrist and added it to the growing pile slung over his arm.

“It’s laundry day. You know it’s laundry day, you prat,” he said under his breath.

His ire stoked, John went on the hunt and found three of Sherlock’s socks in the sofa cushions.

“Three black socks!” he exclaimed. “Do I even want to find out what happened to the other one?” he asked the empty flat. “No, I do not. It’s laundry day, and I’m going to do laundry, DRY CLEAN ONLY or no DRY CLEAN ONLY.”

John took the blue scarf, too, which was sticking out of a half-open desk drawer, but he knew better than to even spare a thought for the Belstaff coat. He was indignant and cranky but not stupid.

John dumped Sherlock’s clothes on top of his own in the laundry basket, then hoisted the basket on his hip, and, in the manner of char persons throughout history, marched off toward the reckoning.

* * *

Down in the cellar, John set the basket on the ground before retrieving a heavy jug of laundry liquid and a light bottle of fabric softener from the sturdy shelf which lined one wall. 

He turned and knocked over the basket with his foot. The jug and the bottle slipped from his grip and fell to the floor with thuds.

John reached out a hand, bracing it on the machines, catching himself before he tipped into the tumble of clothes on the floor.

“Clumsy today it seems.”

He righted himself and faced the washer. He opened the lid. It creaked.

He made to turn and—

WHOOSH!

WHAM!

John suddenly found himself lying on his back, looking up at the pockmarked ceiling of the laundry room.

“What in the bloody hell—?”

He tried to sit up but found himself wrenched down by, by—

By what, exactly?

John’s head swiveled. He looked at both of his arms, they appeared to be held down by wide strips of grey wool, very posh grey wool decorated with a small column of discreet grey buttons. They were the arms of a suit jacket belonging to a suit which was worth more than John’s army pension.

John strained against them, but they didn’t yield. In fact, they seemed to be dragging his own arms along the ground until they raised up over his head.

WHOOSH!

John heard a jangle. He tilted his head back and looked up just in time to see Sherlock’s leather belt, seemingly of its own accord, wrap round his wrists, tighten, and secure itself.

“Holy Mary!” John breathed.

He hardly trusted his eyes.

He kicked with his legs, but he found himself hobbled.

He looked down.

He spied a blur of blue silk against his bare skin. The sash of the dressing gown was wound round his ankles.

“Jesus Christ, what do you want?” John asked as he wriggled on the ground.

Then it occurred to him, he could yell for help.

“SH—!”

That’s all John go out before one, two, three socks crammed themselves into his mouth.

He wasn’t dreaming. He wasn’t high or drunk.

It was Monday, an ordinary Monday. Laundry day.

What did it want? What did they want?

The suit jacket. The belt. The dressing gown. The socks.

Whatever they wanted, they seemed to be working together to achieve it.

THUNK!

John looked over.

Just beside him, the bottle of fabric softener had been tipped over, and the cap had fallen off with an odd plastic sound. 

A saccharine perfume filled the air, and John’s eye caught the writing on the label, _new scent FRESH SWEET PEA_.

Good Lord, he thought, are they going to drown me in that stuff?

John put his chin to his chest and watched as the two ends of Sherlock’s blue scarf curled under the waistband of his pyjama bottoms and pulled them down far enough to expose his pelvis.

Holy. Mary.

Sherlock’s trousers, the split expanse of posh grey wool, moved like some kind of sea creature over John and spread his legs as much as his bound ankles allowed. They held his bent knees fast to the cold floor.

John was bowed and bared from the waist down.

The arms of the dressing gown were pushing up the hem of John’s sleeveless vest. John had to admit that the blue silk felt rather nice brushing against his skin.

But all rational thought fled when the arm of the purple dress shirt, soaked from cuff to elbow in, John realised with a sniff, the cloying-scented fabric softener, coiled round his prick.

_They aren’t going kill me. That’s not the plan at all._

John had always liked that shirt, liked it a lot; that was the truth. Little did he know the sentiment was reciprocated!

The dressing gown and the suit trousers and jacket were holding John down and the belt and the sash were binding him, and the socks were gagging him.

Was it all so that the Purple Shirt of Sex could fuck him?

And, as odd as the scene was, John’s body was responding.

His chest rose and fell in jerks. His nose made ragged wheezing. His skin grew warm and flush. The blood pooled in his groin. A thin sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead.

The sleeve was sliding up and down John’s stiffening prick, twisting and turning, tightening and loosening, its efforts lubricated by the fabric softener.

John squeezed his abdominal muscles and lifted his hips slightly, chasing the touch of the wet fabric.

He closed his eyes and simply felt.

He liked it. He liked it a lot. His nose no longer registered the scent of the fabric softener, but his body was enjoying being at the mercy of these, these, these things.

_Oh, yeah. That’s it. Won’t be long now._

John came.

* * *

In the post-orgasmic haze, John had only a vague sense of the belt unwinding and falling slack with a hard, metallic noise on the floor. His ankles seemed, only seemed because he hadn’t the strength to raise his head and confirm, unbound, his arms unrestrained. 

The dressing gown, the suit trousers, the purple dress shirt, all lay limp and unmoving on top of him.

John spat out the socks or, he wasn’t certain, perhaps they hopped out of his mouth on their own. It was probably the latter.

“Christ,” said John, pushing himself to sitting and taking in the mess: spilt fabric softener, strewn clothes, overturned basket, and his own state, half-nude and streaked with quickly drying ejaculate.

He realised he’d never be able to smell the scent of sweet pea again without getting hard.

Then something made a noise, a living noise.

John started abruptly and glanced up.

On the shelf, where the jug of laundry liquid and bottle of fabric softener had sat, was a large, black cat with enormous green eyes. The cat was looking at John with an arrogant, pitying glance and flicking its tail in undisguised disapprobation.

“Have you been watching the whole time, you pervert?!” charged John.

The cat’s reply was to leap very gracefully to the ground and, purposefully and disdainfully, or so it seemed to John, to skirt the scene entirely.

It strode with tail raised high and twitching, towards the door.

“Hello, Aria,” said a rumbly baritone.

“Oh, fuck,” breathed John.

A familiar silhouette filled the doorway.

“John.”

“Sherlock. Where did that bloody animal come from?!”

“Don’t be rude, John. Mrs. Hudson’s cat-sitting. Uh, John?” The expression on Sherlock’s face was the same as the cat’s had been.

“It’s laundry day, Sherlock.”

“Right.” Sherlock stretched the word to the point of incredulity. “Some of those are DRY CLEAN ONLY, John.”

“I know.”

“Mrs. Hudson isn’t going to like the mess.”

“I know that, too! Tell me something I don’t know, Sherlock.”

“There’s a case.”

“Oh, yeah? Okay. Give us five minutes?”

Sherlock curled his lip in a frown that was sort of like the pout of a strange fish. “Two and a half,” he countered and turned on his heels and exited through the doorway.

If he had a tail, he would’ve twitched it, thought John before he collapsed back onto the floor and stared up at the pockmarked ceiling and sighed,

“Laundry day.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
